The Mysterious Gifts
by AliceIsAFan95
Summary: Since the Reichenbach Fall eight months ago, John Watson's life has stumbled down into nothing more than day-to-day, meaningless activities. Somebody out there has noticed. Somebody out there is going to try to fix him, one weekly anonymous present at a time. But who is this mysterious sender, and will he succeed in fixing John? Eventual reunion, some Johnlock. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Just a short introduction: I first posted this on AO3 but a lot of my friends don't use it so I'm posting it here too. I hope you like it! I very much encourage any reviews you have, good or bad (as long as they're not outright insulting) as they will help me with future works!**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Sherlock Holmes canon, any of its related TV, film and stage productions, the BBC or any characters taken from the canon. All words are my own but I claim no rights. Copyright belongs to respective owners. This applies to the whole story here (10 chapters).**

**Also there's Johnlock hinted to throughout and eventually kissing. So if you don't like, please read one of the many other fanfictions available.**

* * *

John stepped through the front door of 221B Baker Street and trudged up the stairs sluggishly, glancing at his watch as he did so. Eight o'clock. It was fairly early compared to the usual sort of time that John would arrive back on a Friday, but the residents of Marylebone apparently didn't have as many rashes or fevers that day, so John had been able to leave early from the small doctor's surgery where he had taken up work as a general practitioner.

John gave a quick glance around the flat as he entered. He wasn't really sure why. It always looked the same. The cup of tea that Mrs Hudson had left for John grew cold on the side, forgotten as it often was - it wasn't that John had lost his liking for tea; it was just that he didn't really see the point of it. Newspapers reporting a recent banking scandal were scattered over the floor (the interest in the mystery of Sherlock Holmes seemed to have evaporated almost as quickly as the faith people used to hold in him) and the dust from the mantelpiece swirled around the room after the door opened before settling back into place. Everything was how it was when John left. Everything was how it would be.

John sighed and crossed the room, lowering himself into the chair in which he spent most of his evenings since Sherlock's death. John's life and memories now seemed to be divided into three sections in his mind: before Sherlock, John's time with Sherlock, and the aftermath of his death. The first of these and the latter weren't really of any importance, but then the in-between was just a muddled bundle of memories and wishes, unsaid thoughts and unattained desires. Although it pained him to give in, John knew that he had to attempt to cope now; Sherlock was hardly going to walk through the door, coat flowing behind him, no matter how many times John wished for it. This was his life now.

In the 8 months following Sherlock's suicide – although John could never fully tell himself that Sherlock willingly threw himself from the top of St Bart's – John's life lost almost all direction it ever had before. Mrs Hudson still brought him tea each morning, bustling around the flat in a chirpy voice (John supposed she was trying to animate him a little), but his other friends had drifted away. Lestrade showed willing to begin with but eventually became too busy at work to burden himself with John's apparent hopeless depression. Molly, given her due, had tried hard, often popping round in the first few weeks with kind words and DVDs, but each time she had been met with John's blank and directionless stares and mumbles, so it wasn't a surprise that she rarely came any more.

John had tried to get back to normal. He had tried. But each time he had to fake a smile or nod at the condolences of those who hadn't spoken to him before since Sherlock's death, he just felt hollow and useless. That was why, each Friday night like this one, John simply let the world go about its business whilst he sat inside the flat.

This particular Friday evening appeared to be just as all of the others preceding it. John threw a ready meal into the oven, set the timer, and then sunk back down in his chair, picking up the book that he happened to be reading at the time, _The Lost World _by an author named Arthur Conan Doyle. It was one of Sherlock's books: Sherlock had simply left John everything which he knew he should have been more enthusiastic about, but it wasn't as if he was going to use the money or get rid of any of his things. When Sherlock had been living, his possessions had basically been John's anyway so it didn't make much of a difference. John had made his way through about a fifth of the books that Sherlock owned, none of them leaving a particular imprint on his brain. John had just reached chapter five of the book when there was a knock at the door.

"John," Mrs Hudson's bright tone sounded from outside the door, "A man has just arrived with a package for you. He says you have to sign for it. Shall I let him in?"

_A package? At eight o'clock on a Friday night? _

Despite John's wariness, he gave a nod to Mrs Hudson and she went to retrieve the visitor. He had no idea what it could be; he hadn't ordered anything to be delivered and he couldn't think of anyone who was close enough to him bother sending anything. He took his gun from the drawer and stored it down the side of the sofa, realising it could've been one of Sherlock's old "friends" come to visit, then strode to the door and pulled it open in time to see a relatively well-dressed delivery man approaching whilst Mrs Hudson poked her head curiously up the stairs.

"Package for a Dr John Watson," said the man, who was dressed in a thick cotton jacket and held a helmet in his free hand, "Special delivery. You'll need to sign, if that's alright."

He handed John the rectangular shaped parcel - about an inch thick, wrapped in a black paper and labelled with a printed sticker – and reached into his jacket pocket for the small clipboard he was carrying. John put the package on the table by the door, signing on the clipboard.

"Will you be here to get the next gift next Friday week?" asked the man, and John looked bemused.  
"There's another one?"

"Eight, I'm told, including this one," he replied, "One a week. So, are you alright to get it?"

"Yes. Thanks." The man nodded in reply and turned to leave. "Wait," John called, "Can you tell me who sent this?"

The man simply smiled and shook his head, leaving John staring at him with a baffled look upon his face. When the man had descended the stairs and Mrs Hudson shut the front door, John quickly turned back into his flat and picked up the parcel, tearing off the packaging with such vigour that little shreds of paper flew over the room in his haste as he threw the wrappings to the ground.

John looked down at his hands. In them, he held a black, smooth, leather book with a golden border around the front cover. With curious fingers, he opened it.

Inside, there lay a single sheet of paper, delicate and white with music notes written on in elegant calligraphy. Music. It was music.

With trembling fingers, John touched the page and tried to work out the tune in his head. He had never learnt to sight read, so after desperately attempting to hum some sort of tune to match the notes written on the page, he gave up with sigh, lifting the page to examine the other side. As he did so, a folded note of old-style parchment slipped out. Unfolding it, he took in the words.

_To make your life tuneful again._

The words were scrawled in handwriting that John didn't recognise, but even so his eyes reread the 6 words over and over, trying to grasp some clue of who, whoever, would send him something like this. Nothing got delivered to John anymore except bills and letters from the council. The ruddy "Thinking of You" cards had stopped arriving a good few months ago and he hadn't ordered anything online for ages – in fact he'd lost his taste for the internet altogether, other than the times when he'd go onto Sherlock's website and stare at it dully for hours at a time. Who would bother sending him something like this?

Quite frankly, John had no idea. All he knew was that he had to listen to this piece of music as soon as he possibly could.


	2. Chapter 2

The following Saturday morning, John made his way to the house of a musician he had found in the Yellow Pages. She lived only a few streets away, so after waking earlier than he had done in a while on a weekend, he was able to walk round.

It was about nine o'clock when he knocked on the door of the terraced house whose address he'd found on the advert. After a minute or so, the door opened, revealing a woman who looked to be about 70 years old standing in a dressing gown.

"Yes?" she said in a Russian accent, peering at John with a tired but polite expression.

"Sorry to disturb you," said John in his military voice, "I found your advert in the Yellow Pages and I hoped you might be able to place a piece of music for me."

"What piece of music? Who writes it?"

"I…don't know," John replied, "But I'd like to hear it even so. If that's alright?"

"Yes, fine. Come in," the lady gestured for John to enter the house. It was modest, but when they entered the living room he could see just how far she took her passion for music. On the walls were acoustic guitars, long clarinets, golden saxophones and a grand piano sat in the centre of the room, which the lady sat down at and opened up.

"You will pay, yes?" She looked up at John, who was standing with his hands clutching the black book that contained the music.

"Of course. I'll pay you for an hour of your time."

"Let me have a look at this music you wish for me to play."

John handed her the book and she opened it and placed it on her piano, examining it.

"It will be best played here on my grand piano, but I cannot say that this is the best instrument to play it on," she said, "It may miss some magic. You should try it with a string instrument. But I will play it for you even so and you will hear the melody."

"Thank you."

"Well sit down," she said, and when John sat down on the sofa which sat nearby, she started playing.

It was beautiful. It was a truly beautiful piece. The notes were soft at the start, cautious, and then built up to a cheerful but deep tune. Suddenly, the notes cut out after a high note, and dropped to the soft, cautious notes of the start. The lady played the final few bars and then stopped.

"It is a short piece. It is nice. But there is, I fear, something missing."

This was true. John had to say this was true. It was beautiful and melodic but the lady was right; there was something not quite right. If he was honest, John was expecting some sort of revelation – or at least a clue of some sort – when he heard the music; something that would show him a hidden message, or at least give him something emotional to hang onto. And although it was a lovely piece of music, he just didn't see that.

"I can see you are not enlightened," said the lady, "And I am sorry I could not help you more. You must keep trying, and I am sure you will find what you are looking for."

…

Over the next few days, John let thoughts of the music fall to the back of his mind. He spent Sunday in the usual way, sitting around the house and only leaving his chair for an hour when Mrs Hudson wanted help setting up her new computer. Monday and Tuesday at work were busy – lots of children were on their half-term break from school so had come in with all sorts of illnesses that had built up over the term. By Tuesday evening he was exhausted, but his boss, Miranda, told him that there weren't as many appointments on the Wednesday so he would mostly just get emergency call-ins.

He was on his way to work, choosing to walk the longer but more refreshing way through a park rather than through the shorter route of the streets. It was only half past eight and he didn't have to start until nine, so he let himself have a slow walk. His leg had started to hurt again since Sherlock's departure: not to the extent where he needed his old walking stick, but just enough that it sometimes took him a little longer to walk. He wouldn't be running anywhere; that was the short of it.

When John approached the end of the park, he could see something on the ground by the exit. From a distance it looked like a large sack of rubbish, but as he got closer he could see there was a man huddled in a black binbag, writhing on the ground in pain. John rushed over and could hear the man groaning.

"What's wrong?" he asked desperately, pulling the bag away from the man's body. He was homeless, that was easy to tell, and his hand was bleeding horribly.

"They…" the man coughed over his words, "The others…they…glass…my hand…won't stop…blood…"

"When was this? Where did they go?"

"Just…now…" the man spluttered, "But…gone…they…"

John could see from the man's face, dirty as it was, that he was becoming unnaturally pale. Quickly, John took the cleanest part of the binbag and wrapped it tightly around where the blood was coming out, tying it in place. He inspected the wound.

"Right, well I'll have to dress this for you. You're coming with me." John bent down to the ground and hauled the man's good arm around his neck, lifting him up so he could hobble along with John supporting him.

"No…trouble…you…good man…"

John couldn't tell if the homeless man was resisting or thanking him, but he took it to be the latter and stumbled across the road and down the street until he reached the surgery, which was luckily not far to walk.

Miranda opened the door when they came up the steps and helped John carry the man inside. She looked concerned but slightly hesitant.

"Is this a man from the streets, John? Listen, I'm fine with you bringing people in and you can treat this fella but don't think you can do this all the time."

John simply nodded and brought the man into his empty surgery room.

"Lie down and put your bad hand in the air," he said to the man, "It's not so bad that you'll have to go to hospital and it's not deep enough for stitches, but I'll have to give you a good clean and dressing here, okay?"

The man lay on the bed provided, John making a mental note to clean it thoroughly before any more patients came in, and raised his arm in the air whilst John collected the bits he needed.

"What's your name?" he asked whilst he prepared the wrappings and begun cleaning the wound with the fluid in his cabinet.

"My name...Joe," he said, regaining some strength in his voice as he lay in the warm room with his wound being cleaned, "Ouch…it stings."

"Sorry about that, it has to be done."

John worked mostly in silence whilst he attended the wound, only speaking every now and then to confirm where was hurting, how cold did he feel, and such like that. Miranda popped her head around the door a few minutes in to check up on them but was soon called away for clients.

John managed to clean the man up in well under a half hour and by the time he had finished, wound clean and wrapped, the man was looking warmer and healthier to John than when he had found him on the pavement. Joe still looked undernourished, so John gave him half of his sandwich from lunch which he sat on the bed and ate in his torn jeans and dusty jacket.

While eating, Joe stared at John with each bite, but not in an unfriendly way; it was more curious. Once he finished the sandwich, which didn't take long, he glanced over at John's name tag, looked at him more closely, then smiled and nodded.

"I thought I…are you John Watson? The friend of S…Sherlock Holmes?"

John looked at his feet.

"Yes, I am," he replied, "But if you're asking after him I'm afraid he…he passed away a few months ago."

"Shit!" Joe replied, "I heard as much…didn't wanna…I'm sorry. He was a good man. He did a lot for us…guys on the street."

"He was a good man."

"Brave. Brave too," Joe said, smiling more brightly, "And smart…I always said he was smart. If he's gone…tragedy. Tragedy for us."

John could do nothing but look at the man solemnly; it wasn't as if he could go off on a rant to a total stranger about how it was more of a tragedy than anything he could ever describe. He couldn't just tell this man how it felt like his life, empty as it was before he met Sherlock, now seemed like an infinite black hole swallowing all light into it, all happy memories and all sense of direction to the point where nothing made sense and nothing ever would. He couldn't. So he didn't.

Instead, he checked the man's hand once more, and with a slight gesture to the door, politely ushered a grateful Joe on his way.

…

That evening, despite his efforts to the contrary, John thought of Sherlock again. It was never clever letting himself be sucked into the seemingly endless abyss of longing, false hope and despair, an abyss he'd sworn to leave forever after 4 months of entertaining the possibility that perhaps Sherlock wasn't dead at all – perhaps he'd come back the next day. But he never did. And so it went on.

Whenever John thought of Sherlock when he was in 221B, the thoughts became more alive than ever as this was where the two of them used spend the majority of their time together. This particular Wednesday evening, as John thought of Sherlock, he could almost _see_ him strutting around the flat, ranting to John about the latest idiot he'd encountered, moving to his spot by the window to play his violin once things had settled down.

_His violin_.

Scrambling up from his chair, John rushed to his drawer to retrieve the folder with the sheet music in it. He looked at the notes sketched onto it. It could be for violin, couldn't it? Whoever sent this to John knew him so would inevitably have known Sherlock too, and everybody knew of Sherlock's talent after the fact had ended up in an article about him at the time when he was having his moment of fame.

_I may as well try,_ John thought, and 20 minutes later he was on his way round to the Russian musician's house once more.

"I'm afraid I do not play the violin," she said to John when he had arrived and asked her to play it on that particular instrument, "So I will have to disappoint you."

"Do you know anyone who does play?" he asked, "I just thought the music might suit it."

"Well I think you are right, it will be well played on this instrument. Hold on. MARCUS!" The lady called up the stairs, "THERE IS A MAN HERE WHO WOULD LIKE YOU TO PLAY YOUR VIOLIN."

After a few moments, a man of about 30 descended the stairs clutching a mahogany violin.

"This is my son. He will play this piece of music for you. Please have a seat."

John sat down on the sofa once again, and the lady perched beside him. The man began to play.

The piece was meant for the violin, John could see that. _Oh_, how he could see that. The music was more than just pretty notes strung together in a melodic order; it was meaningful, it carried emotion, and more than anything it had John imagining Sherlock again. As the song played, scenes played out in John's imagination – scenes of his life with before, during and after his times with Sherlock. As the first part of the music played, he saw himself, back from Afghanistan, looking for a new life in London. During the bright, central part of the piece, John's heart swelled in reminiscence of the action and delight of their adventures together. But as the piece came to a close and the notes slowed, John's heart felt as lonely and empty as the reality of how he was. Yes, this piece was meant for the violin. And _god_, whoever wrote it was trying to do him in.

…..

The lady let John make a recording of the music to take home so he could keep it with him, and whilst to start with he told himself he couldn't bear to listen to it, it was almost a biography of _John Watson's Life – Starring Sherlock Holmes_ so he gave in and listened to the song over and over, feeding his emotions. In his mind, irrational as it was, the composer of the piece was Sherlock, and John could imagine him playing for John by the window. Of course, in the moments when he wasn't listening to it, he reminded himself how stupid it was to think like that; it was obviously somebody who knew them well (many people knew them in one way or another) and wanted to help John through the hard time he was having.

By Friday night, his obsession with the song grew to the extent where he was listening to the song non-stop whilst he read the books. He'd finished _The Lost World_ and was now reading _The Hobbit_, a childhood favourite of his. He was deep into the book, music swelling as the song played on repeat around him, when there was a knock at the door.

John's was knocked out of the trance he'd been in and he got up to answer the door. Mrs Hudson was standing outside with the delivery man who had come last week.

"He's back again, John," she said, obviously excited by the new event in John's life, "He's got something else for you to sign for!"

The man smiled at John and brought the clipboard out, which John signed quickly.

"What is it?" he asked. The man was holding a large box by his side by a handle. There was a black silk cloth covering the box loosely.

"This little guy's been wriggling around since I got him," the man handed over the gift to John then took a piece of paper from his pocket to read from. "You have to give him water, cat food and mealworms and clean out his cage regularly. If you're gentle, he'll let you hold him without spooking. I have to be off now, but I'll see you next week."

The man left, shutting the front door with a soft bang. John held the gift in his hands carefully. He could tell from holding it that it was a cage.

"Well open it up, John!" Mrs Hudson said, jumping a little with excitement, "Come on!"

John lifted the cover from the cage. Inside sat a tiny, cream-coloured African pygmy hedgehog huddling in the corner. His tiny nose snuffled in the air as the light came over him.

"Oh, John!" Mrs Hudson squealed, "He's just lovely! Look at the little thing!"

John never thought he was one for animals – he hadn't liked dogs at any point and the events at Baskerville hadn't helped – but the little bundle that sat shivering in the cage with bright eyes managed to enchant John a little. A note was attached to the top of the cage: _To keep you company._

"Who could've sent it?" Mrs Hudson asked, still as excited as she cooed over the little hedgehog, "That is a wonder! You're welcome to keep it here, of course, and I'll help you look after it any way you can. Only help though, I'm not-"

"My housekeeper," John finished, smiling very slightly as the little creature wiggled his nose.

"What are you going to call him, John?" Mrs Hudson asked.

John had a good idea, and he'd decided on it almost as soon as the thought of naming had come to him. He didn't even think how it was actually his name; all he really thought about was how he'd suggested it to Sherlock and Irene for their children (all the while imagining their own child running around). It certainly suited a hedgehog.

"Hamish. I'm going to call him Hamish."


	3. Chapter 3

John walks through the doorway of 221B and wipes his forehead of the droplets of rain that lay upon it. The lights are dim and the room gives off a red glow. He pulls off his shoes, tossing them lightly beside the door, and sighs, looking over to the sofa where Sherlock is laying with his eyes closed, obviously deep in thought. John smiles to himself and shuts the door, as quietly as he can, but Sherlock's eyes snap open immediately.

"John," he says, standing up from the sofa and crossing the room to the doorway. He towers over John as usual and this time John finds himself looking at him through wet eyelashes as the raindrops from outside drip down from his hair onto his eyelids.

"Look at you," Sherlock murmurs, smiling in the corner of his mouth, "I told you to take an umbrella." He puts his hand on John's shoulder and slowly slides his sodden jacket off and onto the floor. The rain still beats down outside as Sherlock moves his steady, long fingers down to John's, holding his wrist gently and pulling him over to the sofa.

The two of them sit down and settle, Sherlock lying along with his feet hanging over the edge and John nestled between him and the crease of the leather with his head resting on Sherlock's chest.

"John," Sherlock says with a smile in his voice as he looks down his body to where John's head moves up and down in time with the taller man's breathing.

"Sherlock."

John speaks with a comfort and sureness. Sherlock is here and Sherlock is his. Neither of them speaks for a while; they simply lie there with John's wet clothes soaking through the shirt Sherlock wears, all the way through to his bare skin underneath. Sherlock, the heat of the fire warming his body, feels warm under John's cheek so he lets himself melt, resting there peacefully for what seems like an eternity.

After a while, Sherlock's hand moves around to stroke the back of John's neck and John smiles into Sherlock's chest at the feeling it gives him. He brings his own hand onto Sherlock's arm, tugging gently at the sleeve until Sherlock brings his hand over onto John's chest, intertwining his long fingers with John's and holding his hand closely but softly.

The window, curtains undrawn, mists over with precipitation. The heat from inside the flat mixes with the moisture of the rain to craft a warm steam that dances through the roam over two the two bodies that lie on the leather sofa, melting into one another. John looks up at Sherlock's face – pointed and angular yet still showing softness and pure beauty. He brings his free hand out from beneath him and up to Sherlock's face, carefully stroking his cheekbones and moving up the sofa so his mouth is inches from Sherlock's cerise lips.

"John," Sherlock murmurs, and John can hear his deep, sure voice catching in his throat, "John."

"John. John!" Light filled the living room as Mrs Hudson pulled opened the curtains, awakening John from his sleep.

"Whatsa…" he mumbled, realising he was lying on the sofa, facing the cushions, still fully dressed in Friday night's clothes.

"Goodness me," said Mrs Hudson, tutting at him, "I thought you'd be up by now but I came in to find you lying there, fast asleep and dreaming."

"Dreaming?" John sat up quickly, covering his lap with the nearest pillow. He'd been dreaming about Sherlock again, he knew that, but what had Mrs Hudson heard? "Did I…did I say anything?"

"Oh, nothing important," she replied, smiling to herself, "Well get yourself up and changed then, it's eleven o'clock already!"

John got up slowly and shifted himself to his bedroom, shutting his door behind him. As he began pulling off the clothes he'd been wearing last night, he rubbed his neck. It ached from the way he'd been laying on the sofa. He didn't even remember falling asleep there – all he could remember from the night was a vivid dream of Sherlock and-

Stop this, John thought to himself, You'll only make things worse.

John's dreams had started being filled with Sherlock ever since the fall. Before, Sherlock was such a big feature in his life that he didn't need to dream at all – his life was so exhilarating and vivid on its own that his subconscious didn't need to intervene. Now Sherlock was gone, his brain felt the need to keep reminding him of Sherlock.

The dreams varied: sometimes John and Sherlock would be running around London on a case like they used to; other times Sherlock would simply be in the flat, looking through his microscope or examining the contents of a test tube while John watched him. Then there were the dreams like the one John had last night. Every week or so, John's sleeping mind would show him and Sherlock in dreams full of passion and love – raw, powerful emotions that John had been unwilling to let in at first, but that he eventually let take up his nights. Each dream was different, a different situation, a different embrace, but one thing was always the same. Just before their lips met, John would wake up suddenly: hard, breathless and lonely once again, and John would scold himself over the hopeless longing he let himself slip into.

John dressed in a simple outfit – he didn't plan on going out that day – and returned to the living room. Mrs Hudson was standing by Hamish's cage surrounded by tins of cat food.

"I've topped up his water," she said, beaming, "And I've bought all this cat food for him, if you'd like it."

"Thank you," John replied, smiling slightly and crossing the room to where she stood.

"He's such a lovely little thing!" Mrs Hudson chuckled, "Will he let you hold him?"

"I don't know," he replied. Carefully, he opened the door to the cage and put his hand in. Hamish looked up at him and walked carefully towards his hand, nuzzling it.

"Slowly," Mrs Hudson said. John carefully moved his hand around to the back of the little creature's body. From what he'd heard about African pygmy hedgehogs, the gentler among them would happily let the owner hold them without spooking. He slid his hand under the creature's behind and cupped it, bringing his other hand into the cage to support the hedgehog's body on the other side. He stirred, but other than that he seemed quite happy, so John cautiously brought him outside. Hamish blinked. John examined him carefully: he looked healthy – a little bit sad, too, John thought, but you couldn't really tell the happiness of a hedgehog – and after a few moments of John holding him he yawned, spines flaring on his back as he did so.  
"Oh!" Mrs Hudson said, leaning in to look at him. Hamish raised his head slightly, as if greeting her politely, the same way John did every morning, and Mrs Hudson gave him a little pat on the head with one finger.

"I'd love to stay here all day and help you with him," she said, "But I have to go 'round to Edith's today to sort out her husband's things. I've made you some tea. Will you be alright?"

"Of course," John said. Mrs Hudson left a few moments later, and he was able to hold the hedgehog and get to know him. Immediately, John felt very in sync with the hedgehog – whoever sent him undoubtedly knew John well, so it was no surprise, really – and he spent a good long hour holding him, calm.

Eventually, John put him back and wandered around the flat once more. He walked into the kitchen, where a cup of tea was sat on the counter, cold. John sighed and emptied the cup into the sink. He wouldn't have drunk it anyway. There wasn't much point.

…..

It was Friday morning, the first day of March, after waking up from yet another dream about Sherlock, when John decided to call Molly. The week had been long, partly because work was dull and uneventful and partly because he wanted to see what the week's present would be. One thing he'd noticed that week from interacting with Hamish was how reserved he'd become. Having another living being in the flat again showed him just how lonely he was. He couldn't shut people out for much longer – Sherlock wasn't coming back so he may as well reach out to others.

Molly picked up on the second ring. It was early, before John had to leave, so he guessed that

she wouldn't have left for the mortuary yet.

"Hello?"

"Molly. It's John."

"John…John Watson?" she sounded surprised.

"John Watson. Listen, I was wondering if you were free tonight," he asked, trying to be as polite as possible, "I wanted to talk to somebody."

"Really?" Again, Molly sounded bemused. It was obvious why, of course. John hadn't spoken to her in months and Sherlock was the only thing that really linked them, so she must have been confused as to why he was choosing to ring.

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

"Fine! Yes! Where do you want to meet? At a restaurant, or…"

"Actually if it's okay you can just come around to the flat. About eight-ish? I'll have eaten by then. Is that okay?"

"Of course!" Molly said, obviously trying very hard to cover the bewilderment in her voice. John wasn't sure himself what he wanted to talk about, but he knew he needed it even so.

…..

Molly arrived at 8 o'clock on the dot, laden down with bags of sweets and chocolate. When John let her in, she looked torn between leaving and giving him a hug.

"John," she began.

"Come in, sit down," he knew how shy Molly could be sometimes so he felt like he had to put her at ease. She sat down in one of the chairs by the fireplace – not the one Sherlock usually sat in, John was glad to see – and John brought a chair in from the kitchen to sit on (nobody, not even he, had sat in Sherlock's chair since the fall).

"I'm not quite sure what you wanted to talk to me about," Molly said carefully once John had got himself settled.

"I'm not sure either," he replied, sighing, "It's just…I needed to talk to someone about something, anything. I haven't really spoken my mind to anyone since…"

Molly smiled encouragingly. "It's okay, I understand. I feel awful for not visiting you enough these past months. I know you must need a friend, it's just, and I hope you don't mind me saying this John because you're very lovely, you are, but-"

"I know. I haven't made it easy. I'm sorry."

"Oh, it's fine!" Molly replied, smiling brightly at him, "I know how hard this has hit you. We all saw how bright you were with Sherlock and how you've changed now he's…" She tailed off, looking down.

"I don't know what to do, Molly," John sighed. Now there was someone here to talk to he may as well unload. "I don't know how to act. I don't know if I'm ever going to be better again. When Sherlock was here, I thought it was the adrenaline of the cases that got me into the flow of things, but since he's been gone I can't stop thinking about him. Not the cases, not even the moments we had – though they were what they were because he was in them – but him. Everything about him was so exhilarating. He was so cold on the outside but when he let me in and called me friend it felt like I'd broken a barrier and I found a man who wasn't just a brain. His brain is bloody brilliant but I found a heart too and I felt like it was becoming more good by the day and if I'd only have more time I could have helped him become the good man he truly is. And now he's gone and I can't do anything about it but I just feel so lonely and hollow and the only way anything would ever have a point was if Sherlock came back. But he can't and he's gone. And I wish I could just tell him to stop it, and he'd come back apologising to me but still being Sherlock. Because that's all I want, Molly. Sherlock. Can you understand?"

Molly had been staring at John throughout his speech. He'd spoken more words out loud to anyone about Sherlock in the last minute than he had in 8 months.

"John, I…I know how you must feel," Molly began, "You got closer to Sherlock than I ever saw anyone get. So close that at times I was jealous of you."

"You still love him?"

Molly blushed. "I didn't realise everyone knew I ever did. But I wasn't in love, I was just infatuated. It's different with you and him, I know your relationship was a lot deeper than anything I could have had."

"Molly, I don't love him," he replied quickly, "I was just his friend."

"But you weren't, John," Molly said with increased confidence, "There was something deeper there, everyone could see it."

"But don't you see? I don't know myself what our relationship was but I can't even think about it now because it's just torturing myself."

Molly looked like she wanted to say something else.

"John, I-"

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Answering it, John found the delivery man again, this time accompanied by another, taller man. The former greeted John with a grin.

"Hello again! It's a big one this time!"

John peered down the stairs. There appeared to be a box about a metre cubed in size sitting in the hallway.

"What's that?" he asked, and Molly came to join him at the door.

"You'll see, won't you!" the man replied, grinning as he backed away from the door and went down the stairs to collect the box with his companion. The box, made of a deep black cardboard, was placed inside the doorway. As soon as he'd signed for it and the men had left, he went to fetch some scissors to break the seal at the top.

"What was that about?" Molly inquired as he set about removing the thick tape which held it together.

"I've been getting gifts sent to me every week," he replied, hacking away as quickly as he could at the tape.

"Who from?"

"I don't know. But it's strange, it's like somebody's watching me and trying to make me feel better…I don't know. But it's something different."

John opened the seal and lifted the sides of the box so he could see inside it.

Tea. The box held packets and packets of Earl Grey tea. John had to say he was surprised – of all the things he'd imagined getting that week he wouldn't have said this would be a possibility. Bemused, John searched for a note and eventually found it attached to the top of one of the boxes of tea.

To make you feel better.

"Who would send you tea?" Molly asked, "And why?"

"I have no idea."

"What are you going to do with it?"

Sod it.  
"I guess…I'll have a cup of tea."


	4. Chapter 4

A rose. That was the fourth gift. At least…John thought it was a rose. The petals and shape of the flower definitely resembled one but he knew that black roses like this one didn't exist. They were a thing of fiction, of poetry. And yet here one was, delivered once again on a Friday night. John had had a particularly uninspiring week. Apart from the small changes in his life - like how he'd taken to drinking tea again, and how little Hamish was now taking up some of his time – his life still felt as pointless as ever. So there John was, sitting in his on a Friday evening in March, a black rose in his lap. And all he could think of was Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. And so it was that John deciding to post on his blog once again.

* * *

**The Personal Blog of**

**Dr. John H. Watson**

8th March

I don't know why I'm writing this. God, I'm not even going to post this. I don't even want other people to read it. The truth is, it's for you, Sherlock. It's for you.

People will probably think I'm crazy for doing this. It's not like you're alive to see it. You've been gone for over eight months and I still can't seem to let go. Maybe I believe that writing this…letter (if that's what it is) to you will help me move on. But I can't truly say that it will.

I'm not sure I'll ever get over it, Sherlock. I'm not sure I'll ever get over you. How can I go from a life of excitement, adventure, passion to…nothing? Maybe if I knew what happened I might be able to come to terms with it. But I don't understand.

You were standing so tall before you fell. The whole world was falling in love with you. I just don't understand how everyone could suddenly turn on you like that, how they could suddenly turn their backs on all the miracles you performed for them and believe _Moriarty's_ story. I thought it would all blow over, that you'd solve the problem like you did with every one of the cases you helped the stupid police with. What was it you said? "It's a trick. It's just a magic trick". If it was a trick, you would have stepped out from behind the curtain by now and taken your bow. So where are you?

I'm angry, Sherlock. I'm angry at everything. I'm angry at Moriarty because somehow he managed to take you down and take you down in a way that I didn't think was possible. I'm angry at Lestrade because he let it happen. And I'm angry at you for leaving me.

But I can't be angry, not really. But I am. I just can't face that you're gone and that you've left me here. I'm getting these anonymous presents, that's good, I suppose, but soon there won't be anymore and I'll be back to where I started: useless and alone.

Mrs Hudson wants me to find a girlfriend. She thinks it would do me good to "find someone nice to fall in love with". But every time I try to picture myself with somebody, I just feel sick to my stomach. Why? I never thought I loved you when you were here. All of the exhilaration, that was just because of the cases, I thought. But now you're gone, all I can think of was how my feelings did little leaps of excitement every time you gave me one of your smirks, how my heart rate didn't slow down even hours after we'd stopped running around London. But now I see. I dream about you all the time, about _us_. I think every day about what might have happened if I'd just let whatever was bubbling on the surface rise to the top. Maybe we'd have stayed as we were. Maybe we would have been more.

I don't know. And I'll never know.

Come back, Sherlock. Just come back.


	5. Chapter 5

A fortnight after the Friday when he'd received the black rose as a gift, John sat in his chair in anticipation of what this week would bring. The previous Friday, he'd had to travel to Manchester to attend training for a new prescription system, so he was away for that evening. No present had come that week; it was as if the person sending them knew where he was.

It was late by the time the knock on the door came: about ten o'clock. John was sinking into his chair by this time, having had a busy week at the practice. Mrs Hudson popped her head in again, intrigued, as the man smiled and handed over a few pages mapping out parts of London.

"My employer says that this gift is _giving you London_," the man said, grinning mysteriously, "I honestly have no idea what that means."

_Nor do I, _said John, carefully untying the ribbon and opening the map up. The map only showed a small area of London, to the east of where he lived. A house was circled on one of the streets in thick black ink – some street labelled 'Gower Street' – and there was a printed black note in the top corner of the page.

_To help you do something productive._

"I'll be off then," said the man jovially, "But I've been told to tell you that you'll be getting new pages all through the week. I'll just post them through the door, is that okay?"

"Yeah, thanks," he replied and shut the door on Mrs Hudson and the delivery man.

John laid the map page out on the floor. On the reverse side, the printed notation (which looked as if it had been produced with an old-fashioned typewriter) was more detailed.

_You have been inactive for too long now, you have not been appreciating the life that can be found in London if you care to look for it. This is a case for you to solve. Tomorrow at 12, you must go to the house outlined on this plan. There you will find Detective Inspector Lestrade and his team, who will be clearing up and will conclude that this was a suicide or an accident. This is not the case. It is your job to find out what really happened._

A case? John hadn't even thought about going back to investigating: not without Sherlock. The cases were nothing without him. He couldn't do it by himself…could he?

….

Despite his reservations about the case, John found himself making his way along the road to the crime scene where he'd been instructed to go. He'd considered it long and hard last night, even talking to Hamish, whom he often confided in to gather his thoughts and who, John had concluded, was basically his spirit animal. He had eventually decided that so far, the anonymous gift-giver had improved his life (albeit not completely – he doubted he would ever be back to normal) so he may as well go along with the little "adventure" or case this gift-giver had planned.

It was true, John mused on the short walk to the property, that he hadn't had much motivation to explore London at all in the past nine months. In fact, apart from his walks to and from work, he hadn't been motivated at all to go anywhere around the city, let alone start investigating again like the anonymous gift-giver seemed to be trying to achieve.

John arrived in the road at 12 o'clock on the dot. Police tape surrounded the house, which was tall with three floors and a balcony on the second. As John approached, he could see two people outside, talking and as he moved closer he saw that it was Donovan and another young policeman.

_Donovan._

John had thought she might be there, so it didn't come as much of a surprise, but even so his heart sank. He tried to stand up straight and hide the loathing he felt – she had been the one to first raise concerns about Sherlock, after all – as she stared at him, disbelieving and called inside.

"Greg!" she called, and soon Lestrade came out of the property, fiddling with a walky-talky and walking briskly.

"What is it, Sally? We're looking through his-" He stopped in his tracks when Donovan nodded her head to wear John was standing and Lestrade caught sight of him.

"John!" he said in surprise, "John, hi! What are you doing here?"

"Well, I…" Now he was here, John could see the ridiculousness of the situation. How could he explain without sounding totally mad? _Oh, hullo Greg, nice to see you again. I know we haven't talked in ages because I've been sulking over the death of my good pal Sherlock, who I fancy the pants off by the way, but you see, some old chap has been sending me presents to try and stop me being such a moody so-and-so, and they told me to come here and have a look around. You don't mind, do you?_

"I heard that there had been an…incident here," he tried, "And I thought I might be able to…help."

"Well, John," Lestrade said, "I appreciate you coming down here, but we've really got it under control. We're looking at a suicide, or just a freak accident, but we're just clearing up."

_Just like the note said._

"Would I be able to take a look? I just had an inkling that there might be more to it, from what I've heard anyway."

"John, I don't think I can do that," he mumbled, looking at his feet, "You know the trouble it caused last time we let outsiders take part. You know…with Sherlock."

Lestrade tailed off after he saw John's face. _Sherlock_, John thought, _was what saved your bloody arses thousands of times, and now he's dead and it's all because people didn't believe in him._

"John, I know you must be upset, but I really can't."

"Fine." John mumbled, "I'll be off then."

John turned on his heel slowly and stumbled away, putting extra emphasis on his slight limp to try to get the result he wanted.

"John, wait."

_Yes._

"Maybe," Lestrade mumbled sheepishly, "Maybe we could let you to have a look. But this is just once, John. You're not to get too involved with this. I'll let you investigate on your own, if you like, but I can't take on anything you say without proof. All right?"

"Yes. Thank you."

And so the case was opened.


	6. Chapter 6

"So how did he die?"

"Well, we think he either fell or jumped from this balcony," Lestrade said, gesturing to the open doors of the bedroom, outside which there was a paved balcony overlooking the street, "That's what all the signs point to. He was found on the pavement outside face down, obviously dropped. His parents were in the house at the time and so was his girlfriend, but they didn't see it happen."

"Is there anything in the house that might point to something otherwise?"

"Not really, John," Lestrade replied, raising his eyebrow at him, "Listen, I want you to be careful. I know I've said you can check this out – you can talk to witnesses and stuff - but it's really a simple case and I wouldn't want you to get into trouble with anyone, be it people this guy knew or even the police themselves. I'm letting you do this because you're my friend and I want to help you."

_Well, you didn't help Sherlock when the police were out to get him, _John wanted to retort, but instead he nodded and thanked Lestrade, checking around the house briefly before going on his way.

John knew it wasn't right to blame Lestrade for the events of the previous year. It wasn't his fault – god, it wasn't really Donovan's. It was Moriarty – it was always Moriarty. And yet, he still felt angry at everyone to a certain extent, especially those still living. He was angry at Lestrade, at Donovan, at the Chief Superintendent, at Kitty Riley, and more than anything he was angry with himself.

Perhaps that was why he felt keen to solve this case, John mused to himself as he walked the streets back to 221B; he hadn't solved Sherlock's problem in time. He had to prove himself, maybe that was what it was. Maybe, just maybe, solving this case and being useful again would stop him feeling so guilty.

….

"His face is a bit mashed up," said Molly as she and John stood over the body of the 25-year-old, "But his family came in and identified him on Friday. Lovely parents. His mother was inconsolable."

John had received another map page through the door the evening before, stating that John was to visit the morgue at St Bart's on the Sunday, where Molly would show him the body. It was hard for John to go back to the hospital – he hadn't been in so long now – but he had been able to access the hospital through another entrance on the other side of the complex to where Sherlock had fallen. Molly had greeted him as if she knew what he had come for, which struck John as odd. From what she mumbled to him, it seemed as if the anonymous gift-giver had sent her a message explaining all – she wouldn't answer any more questions about it.

The man, Mark Verraten, was in a horrible state. It was obvious how he had fallen – sliding off forwards off the railing. From the difference in the state of his knees compared to his feet, it was clear that his feet had been tucked behind when he was falling, suggesting his position of sitting on the railing of the balcony.

"Is there anything unusual about him?" John asked, examining the body closely for any clues.

"Well," Molly began to explain, consulting her clipboard, "He has lots of bumps and bruises over him, but they're all quite old and of different ages, so he must've been doing something active. There are also signs that he might have been a drug user."

"Really?" John asked, surprised. This case just got a twist.

…

The next map page came on the Sunday evening, labelling a house in Shepherd's Bush where it was said the parents of the man would live.

John had to wait until after work on Monday to go to the house, but he made his way there as soon as he was finished with his last patient. A man of about sixty opened the door with weary eyes.

"Yes?"

"Hello," John began, "I'm with the police and I wanted to come around to ask you some questions about your son Mark. I'm very sorry, by the way."

"The police?" the man asked, "Are you treating this as suspicious then?"

"We're, erm…we're not sure yet. I just wanted to assess the situation. Are you busy?"

"No, no, come in, come in," the man replied, ushering John into the porch.

"Is your wife home?"

"Yes, she's here," he replied in a hushed voice "But I have to warn you, she's been a bit on edge for a while now. She might say certain things, accusations and the like, which I can assure you are probably completely unfounded. This has hit her the hardest, I think."

"Who's that, Matthew?" a shrill voice called from the living room.

"He's from the police, Margaret," the father replied, gesturing to the door which John passed through into the living room where the mother was sitting on a sofa, looking panicked, "He's going to have a talk with us."

"What have you found out?" Margaret gasped, frantically standing when John entered the room.

"Don't worry, it's nothing like that," John replied, noting how grief-stricken the woman looked, "It's just a check-up."

The woman nodded, sitting back down.

"Please, have a seat," Matthew offered, "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Earl Grey would be lovely if you have any," John replied, sitting down on an empty chair facing the sofa. Margaret followed her husband to the kitchen and John could hear them arguing about something in hushed voices. Minutes later, they both arrived and sat down opposite John.

"What was your son like?" John inquired, "If you don't mind me asking."

"He was wonderful," the mother said, "My perfect little boy. So adventurous, so daring. My brave little daredevil, I called him. And he'd done so well, with his business and everything. I was so proud when it started taking off and he could afford his flat."

"What was his business?"

"He designed adverts for small businesses. We didn't think he'd earn much from it but suddenly he was making so much money. He had such a future ahead of him."

"What about his personal life," John tried, "Did he have a significant other?"

"His girlfriend, Heidi," Margaret replied, a frown on her face.

"You didn't like her?"

"She was a good-for-nothing gold-digger. I don't know what Mark saw in her."

"She wasn't that bad, Marge."

"I didn't like her and I'm glad she won't have a reason to be anything to do with this family anymore. If you ask me, she had something to do with Mark's death. I hated her and she was awful and she was taking my son away from me," her voice grew shriller and shriller as she continued, "She was always out to get his money and I don't know if she thought she had some sort of claim-"

"Enough," the man cut in firmly, "We've discussed this. Stop this now."

"But Matthew-"

"No," Matthew stood up and turned to John, "I'm sorry, but you'd better go. You can come back another time once she's stopped this nonsense. I'll see you out."

John got up and walked with him into the hallway.

"I'm so sorry," Matthew murmured quietly to John, "She gets these ideas all the time. I'm almost certain that Heidi has nothing to do with this. She's a sweet girl, and besides…"

Matthew gestured for John to move in closer.

"In truth," he murmured, "Mark didn't have a lot of money. His career was going well to start with; he was going on all these adventure holidays and he had a great life. But recently he'd been getting into debt trouble. He didn't want me to worry, said he was sorting it out. I don't think there would be any trouble there, but I suppose you could check that out. And I'm sorry about my wife. She'll be better when you come back."

"Thank you."

…

When John returned, he found another map page through the door. On it, a small alley in the area was circled and some words were printed on the page: _Go after nine o'clock. Be careful._

It struck John, during the next working day, that the person sending these gifts, whoever they were, was actually making a difference. It was only in small, subtle ways, that was true, and he wouldn't ever be truly the same, but he was going around London a lot more since this case and he actually felt motivated to do _something_. John found himself wondering harder who was sending them – it seemed as though they wanted to remain anonymous, but was there a sequence to be found? Was he missing a clue?

The alleyway was only a few streets away from John's work. It was close to half nine when John managed to get away – after he'd finished his appointments he had to file some documents – so he made his way there immediately.

Soon, after passing several dark alleyways, which didn't look nearly as safe as they used to when he went gallivanting through them at top speed with Sherlock, John felt himself growing wary. Shadows fell over his face and the temperature of the area seemed to have plummeted by a good ten degrees since he'd left work. He was a street-smart man, of course he was. All the years in Afghanistan hadn't hurt either. But he didn't have his gun on him and the little cul-de-sac wasn't the safest of places.

He eventually found the alleyway, but stopped himself before turning in to see the group whose voices he could hear. What exactly was he doing here? It was something to do with the case, of course, but would he just parade over to them and start firing questions? He certainly couldn't take the "I'm a police officer" approach with anyone who stood around in dark alleys in the evenings. Taking a deep breath, he turned the corner.

"Oi oi," sneered a tall man of about 30 when he saw John, "Who's this?"

The other men – two of them – turned around to look at John, who was regretting his decision more and more by the second.

"What d'you want?" said the youngest, only a teenager, looking shifty but otherwise threatening.

"I-" John began. _Come on. Play the part. What would Sherlock have done?_ "I'm a mate of Mark Verraten's," he said, standing up tall and pushing his shoulders back, "I know he has something to do with you and I have to sort stuff out for him."

The men looked at one another and started swaggering towards John.

"Yeah," said the tallest, "We know Mark. He's a good…friend of ours. Why's he sending you here? Can't face up to us himself?"

"Mark's dead," John retorted, attempting to sound brave, "So I have to come here and see what the fuss was about."

"Dead?! You sure?" the men circled in on John and looked down upon him. He felt incredibly small.

"Completely sure. So what was the problem?"

"The problem," the third man said, "Was how he never came back after he stopped dealing."

"Dealing?"

"Yeah. He took the stuff and was gonna deal it, fair and square, like always, but he never showed up. That was a month ago and all. We've been looking for him. He owes us a lot, he does."

John was surprised. He knew this man used drugs, but he seemed to have some other double life completely. Maybe he had killed himself because of the debts. Or maybe these people had something to do with it.

"Very good at hiding, was our Marky," said the oldest, smirking, "We couldn't find him during the month. Fake address, you see. Led us on a wild goose chase to some house in East London."

"So you didn't go and see him? Or send anyone?"

"Nah," said the third man, "We didn't. Why all these questions, anyway? Who are ya?"

"I'm just a friend."

"You're a _friend_ with an awful lot of questions. You don't look like the type we normally get here. So, I'll ask you. What are you here for?"

The men closed in on him, seemingly towering over him now. He saw the tallest one give a nod to the teenager, who pulled out a small knife. He had to think fast.

"Now, now, I'm sure we can sort this out like-"

Using the techniques he'd learned over the years of attacking whilst attention was distracted, John punched the tallest man full on in the face, knocking him backwards. The youngest one looked down for a second, a second that John used to his advantage. He snatched the knife from the hands of the boy and swiped it across the cheek of the other man, who howled with pain and grasped his cheek. With one swift kick to knock over the youngest of the gang, John took his chance and fled from the scene, running as fast as he could away, although nobody was following him.

_That was…bloody amazing! _John mused as he sprinted through the streets. For the first time in a while, he felt active again, such like he hadn't done since his adventures with Sherlock. For the first time in months, he felt free.

…

That evening, after calling Lestrade and informing him of the men he'd encountered – Lestrade tutted, as John had expected, but said he'd sort them out – John settled down, feeling satisfied. There were two pages through the door; one simply showed the house where Mark had lived and died, and the other didn't have a property marked on it: simply a few streets and _If you need it _printed on. He was doing well, he thought. True, he hadn't worked everything out yet, but he was collecting information well and he'd come to terms with London again. Yes, he was quite proud of himself.

…

"I don't know what happened to him," whimpered the girlfriend of Mark, Heidi, who sat crying in their flat the next day, "He was so happy. He had debts but he told me about them and we were going to sort them out together. He wouldn't have killed himself, he just wouldn't."

"How can you be sure?"

"I just am," she replied, "We shared everything together. Secrets, hobbies, clothes, food. He wouldn't just leave me. He wouldn't."

John gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"Do you think maybe it could've been an accident? Maybe he fell off?"

"I don't know," she replied with a sob, "He always had such good balance. We used to go on trips together all the time where we'd do rock climbing and all things like that. I just don't understand!"

Heidi collapsed into sobs.

"I-I just can't face that he's gone. And I know that if I say it can't have been his doing they'll all just blame me. His parents didn't hear me in the shower, so nobody's going to believe my alibi. But I promise, I would never hurt him! I loved him more than anything, even when he got involved with the drugs, I still stayed by him. Say you believe me!"

John sighed. "I do. I want to find out what happened as much as you. Why don't you calm down, maybe tell me about your time with Mark? What did you do together?"

Heidi sniffed.

"It was wonderful. We'd have all these adventures together, adrenaline rushing, and I'd just feel so free with him. But then in the evenings it was so different but equally as perfect. I'd look into his eyes and just see such a beautiful man. Have you ever felt like that, Sir? So free, yet so calm?"

John had to admit to himself that he had felt exactly that. In fact, he was just like Heidi: left alone without the emotions he had once felt guiding him.

"We were so contrasting and yet it was so perfect. He just felt like a part of me," she smiled, a sad, distant smile that John could recognise, "I remember how I used to always take his jumpers and put them on, and so he used to take my dressing gown to get his own back. It looked so silly on him – it was all pink and fluffy and he used to put the hood up around his face - it made me laugh so much. He was wearing it when he fell. That's how they found him. Hood up, lying on the ground."

She dissolved into sobs again and John got up again, thinking over what she had said and patting her reassuringly.

"It's okay, I'll sort this out."

"I just can't bear not _knowing_."

"I know, I know." John looked at the woman, so helpless, and saw in her part of himself. He needed to solve this case, for her and for his own development. If he could solve a crime without Sherlock, maybe that would promise him a life without such a desperate reliance. And as he sat in the flat, he began to start some deducing of his own.

…

It had worked. John couldn't believe he had done it, but it had worked.

He'd gone back to the house where the parents lived with only the smallest suspicions and clues, but he went with it and goodness, it had worked!

It was what the girlfriend said about the dressing gown. It got John thinking about a time when he was younger and he'd put on Harry's hooded duffle coat in the playground. His mother had called out Harry's name to John, surprised when he turned round and she saw her son. It was unlikely that Mark had killed himself or fallen by chance – contrary to what Lestrade said, the signs did _not_ all point to that. He'd gone round to the house in Shepherd's Bush for information, mainly, to question them over what they'd seen in the house. Only a small part of him ever suspected that one of the boy's _parents_ could have had anything to do with it.

And yet, there it was: his mother, in a fit of crazed, grief-stricken madness, had admitted to killing her son. Lestrade was shocked when John told him.

"And what exactly did she say happened?" Lestrade had asked, incredulous, when John rung him up later that day.

"Well, I was just asking the mother about the girlfriend. But she was getting increasing angry about the girl, so I asked why. She started going crazy, shouting about how she was taking her son away from her and how she wouldn't have it, she wouldn't have it. Her husband was looking so shifty so I asked if she'd go so far as saying she'd want to_ kill_ the girlfriend. She looked terrified. So I explained to her carefully my theory; that she'd seen the Mark in his girlfriend's dressing gown sitting on the balcony and assumed it was her, then took her chance and pushed her off – and then she burst into tears and confessed!"

"John, I don't believe it," Lestrade said, "This is incredible!"

"I can hardly believe it myself," he replied.

"Who said you needed, Sherlock, eh?"

…

John's pride and satisfaction on solving the case stayed with him for the rest of the week. He'd helped solve a case, he'd rediscovered London and most of all, he'd shown that he didn't _need_ Sherlock to have a life. That said, he still couldn't feel completely right as he sat facing an empty chair as he had done for the months past. He was improving, that was true. But he wouldn't be _fixed_. He just needed to try.

That Friday evening, John drifted off slowly in his chair, book in his hand, feeling better after the week behind him. He was almost completely asleep when the delivery man knocked on the door, carrying that week's gift.


	7. Chapter 7

The watch was beautiful. Truly, it was. It sat in a black velvet box, handed over with another smile by the man – he still needed to ask him his name; he'd just been "the delivery man" in John's head the whole time. Opening the small box, John was blown away. It was silver, but of the finest quality. The circular face was made of some sort of white pearled material, with a black ring of pure jet stone surrounding it. The numbers were embossed on the face, along with the brand name, _Omega_, in what looked like pure gold, and when John turned the watch over he could see the intricate clockwork inside the case. It was expensive; there was no doubt about that. Whoever sent it obviously had good connections or a fair amount of money themselves – John had to say it was worth about £2000 at the very least.

John searched for the piece of paper he had come to expect, with a note to John written on. He found it beneath the velvet bed the watch sat in. Picking it up, John could see that it wasn't what was meant to be in there – it had obviously been put there by accident. The paper used was completely different to the normal, and there was no block print on it. It was blank, except for some impressions of letters on the paper, where someone had obviously written on another piece of notepaper and it had gone through to indent this sheet.

Quickly, John ran to his desk and searched through the drawers for some kind of pen he could use. He found a think wooden pencil towards the back taking it and shading over the impressions in the paper so the words formed.

The handwriting wasn't particularly legible as it was just a copy, but John could see the words clearly enough.

_Letter O gift. 6__th__ of 8. 29__th__ March. _

29th March – that was the date. Sixth of eight – that must refer to the number of gifts. But "letter O gift"? What on earth could that mean? It seemed to be referring to some sort of lettering system, but O certainly wasn't the sixth letter in the alphabet.

_It must be a code, _John thought to himself, a shot of excitement buzzing through him at the idea of this new clue. Maybe it would help him work out who was sending them. He knew that the sender of the gifts obviously wanted to remain anonymous, and that obviously wasn't the point of the gifts, but still…he had to be curious.

John placed the watch on the desk and took a piece of paper from his notepad, pausing with the tip of the pen on the paper. It was harder than he thought. He didn't really know what the code would be. A letter represented each gift – O must stand for Omega, the watch - that much was fairly certain, but it was hard to decipher what each gift actually _was_. The first one, for example. Music. Violin. Notes. What could that be?

He moved onto the next gift. Hedgehog. It had to be hedgehog, John mused as he looked over to Hamish, who was snuffling around his cage as usual.

_Yes, hedgehog._

John scribbled it down and underlined the H. Eight gifts meant eight letters. Well, he had the second and the sixth for sure. But what were the others. The third gift was most likely tea, he supposed he could write that down. And rose was the fourth gift. What did that give him so far?

John's heart sank. Well that didn't look like anything at all.

Just then, there was a quick knock on the door, and Mrs Hudson let herself in, grinning amiably at John and carrying a few bags full of cat food.

"I was at the shop today and I got some more food for Hamish, in case you've run out."

John stood up. "I have a good 20 cans left!" he chuckled, "But thank you."

Mrs Hudson set the bags down by the cage, waggled her fingers at Hamish and then crossed to John at the desk.

"What are you doing there, dear?" she asked, "Something for another case?"

John had told Mrs Hudson all about his success the week before with the case, and she'd seemed rather taken with the whole idea. She'd remarked on how "lovely it is to see you up and about again, John, like you used to with Sherlock."

"It's for these gifts," John replied, "I think there's some sort of code involved, one letter for each gift, but I can't quite work it out."

"Let me have a go," she said, sitting down at the desk and picking the pen up, looking delighted at the prospect.

"Let's see," she murmured to herself, "You had that song first, didn't you? You were given a song."

John nodded in reply, and she scribbled down on the paper.

"And of course Hamish came next," she chuckled, "What was after that?"

"The tea," John replied, gesturing to the large box he'd placed in the kitchen which was still half-full of tea bags.

"Ah yes," Mrs Hudson smiled, "The Earl Grey. You've grown rather fond of that again, haven't you? I'm glad you stopped the silly nonsense you had when you would drink the tea I made you. What was the fourth present you got?"

"The letter for that is R," John said quickly, not wishing to divulge the fact he'd got a rose to Mrs Hudson – she'd only try to suggest the person sending the gifts was a secret admirer, "You can just write R down."

Mrs Hudson gave John a curious look, but continued all the same.

"And what about the case?" she asked after she had written down the next entry, "C, would you say?"

Suddenly, John remembered what the man had said the week before.

_My employer says that this gift is_ _giving you London._

Did that mean that London was the gift? It could be – Omega wasn't obvious, after all.

"Try L for that," John suggested to Mrs Hudson, "I think it's London. And then this one is O, I know that for sure."

Mrs Hudson scribbled down the letters, then sat back, frowning slightly.

"Now John," she said cautiously, "I don't want you to jump to conclusions here. Whoever's sending you these presents is trying to be nice, I'm sure, but they could also be leading you on a bit. You must remember reason."

"What is it?"

John looked down at the piece of paper she was writing on, to see the letters of the code which were written there. What he saw all but knocked the air out of him.

…

During the next week, John tried to be reasonable with himself – like Mrs Hudson had said, he shouldn't be too hasty in his assumptions, and it could easily be the case that this was all a big trick to get John into a weaker state.

But still…he couldn't stop hoping…couldn't stop wondering.

He was torn, most of the time, between telling himself how ridiculous he was being, but also letting himself _believe_.

It all fit, after all. The violin music – Sherlock played the violin and often composed. The black colour – Sherlock was no stranger to black. Someone like Sherlock would certainly have information about a case, knowingly given or not. And if anyone had access to a wealth of funds that could be used to buy something like the watch, it was Sherlock's brother Mycroft.

By Friday, John had had about 40 arguments with himself over the situation. At one point, he'd started to entertain the idea that maybe – possibly – the gifts were from Sherlock. But what would that mean? Was Sherlock alive? Impossible. John had seen Sherlock, dead on the ground in front of him, no pulse. And yet…he couldn't help hoping.

The trouble was, every time he started believing that Sherlock – maybe, possibly, at all – was alive, his brain was torn. One half told himself how crazy he was – the sender could either be doing it as a joke, or carrying out tasks Sherlock gave before the fall at St Bart's – but the other was fully animated, excited even. The moment he let himself think like that, the blood rushed to his head and he felt himself go dizzy at the prospect that somewhere, somehow, Sherlock could possibly be alive.

John had dreamt again of Sherlock the night before the Friday of that week. This time he'd come closer than ever to breaking the empty air in between their two dream bodies to embrace, lip on lip, soul to soul, rather than simply the desperate holding that filled the dream scenarios. He'd woken up when his face was mere centimetres away from Sherlock's in the dream, and he'd woken up with more conflicted thoughts than ever.

He tried to push thoughts of a living Sherlock to the back of his mind – they were simply ridiculous without further proof. He tried, instead, to consider what the seventh gift would be.

The delivery man arrived at nine o'clock on the Friday, this time not accompanied by Mrs Hudson. He carried only a small envelope in his hands, and handed it over to John without a word, turning to leave almost immediately.

"Wait," John called out after him, "Can I ask you something?"

The man looked concerned, but nodded slowly.

"I was wondering if you could tell me anything about your employer? There's only one gift left after this one, so I thought it could be safe enough."

The man shook his head. "Sorry," he sighed, "I can't tell you anything. I've literally been sworn to secrecy. He says I'm not to reveal anything."

"So it is a man?"

The man looked angry at himself.

"Oh shit, yes," he said, "But I can't say anything else. I have to go before I really put my foot in it."

He hurried away, leaving John standing in the doorway.

_Well it's a man,_ John thought to himself as he opened the black envelope and a ticket fell into his hands. It was made of a fine quality card, and the end of the ticket was frayed such that it looked as if another ticket had been printed with it and torn off. The event was a strings concerto – concerto; that must be the C, if the code did in fact exist – in a concert hall in Barbican, which was happening the next evening.

John was intrigued. He hadn't really been expecting that, if he was honest, but he reasoned that all of the other gifts had been good and had helped him, and if he was going to find out who was sending these presents and what it had to do with Sherlock, this would be the way to do it.


	8. Chapter 8

John was in a constant battle with himself. Not over the tickets – he knew he was going to the event (how could he not?) – but instead over who could have sent it. He was torn, and had been for so long now, over the rational part of his brain and the other half – the one which controlled his dreams.

It was thus such that John found himself getting out of the cab outside the theatre at which the concerto was being played, with a slight hope in his heart that the holder of the other ticket was…well, Sherlock.

The theatre he arrived at was fairly small. John was wearing one of his smartest shirts and some pressed trousers he hadn't put on for a long time, and of course his new watch was on his wrist. It was amazing just how _perfect_ the watch was; it suited John's taste and style perfectly and he imagined that if his wages had helped him to do so, he would have picked the watch out himself. In fact, every gift he'd been given seemed to fit into John's life seamlessly – whether it was Hamish fitting into the flat, the music fitting into his mind's daily soundtrack, or simply how he'd begun to drink tea again.

_Only one gift left, _John thought to himself as he approached the doors of the theatre, _Then that's that. No more._

It would be sad, of course. He'd have to stop getting excited every week, and it would be like whoever was sending them felt like he was "fixed". And he was, to a certain extent. But then he wasn't.

An elderly man in black tie was standing by the door when John approached, and he opened it wide to let John in.

"May I have your ticket please, Sir?" the man said with a little nod of the head, and John handed over his.

"Ah yes, Dr John Watson," he said, "The person you will be seated with has already arrived. If you would like to follow me."

He gestured to a doorway to the left, which John entered. The room itself was quite small, fairly dark, too. John could see about 30 or so candlelit tables around the room, with seats around each, and a modest stage at the front where a string quartet was preparing under dim lighting. John couldn't see the other members of the audience, but they all seemed to be seated in pairs.

John gulped as the usher led him to a table.

_Who is this going to be? _John wondered to himself, both nervous and excited at the prospect.

Blinking through the dimness, John's eyes fell on the person sitting at the table.

It wasn't Sherlock, of course it wasn't. It was Harry.

…

"I can't believe it's been so long!" John's sister said as they settled in, "The last time I saw you we were eating Christmas dinner, before it all went a bit pear-shaped."

John remembered that day. He'd been so full of hope for Harry – she'd told him she had quit drinking for good and he'd believed her, even after Sherlock had announced the contrary – but it was towards the end of the meal that John walked into the kitchen and saw her pouring a large brandy. They'd had a fight and John had stormed out once again, slamming the door of 221B when he entered and saw Sherlock's raised eyebrows. John sometimes regretted that they hadn't spoken since, but after Sherlock left it was hard for him to imagine relying on anybody in an emotional way – so he didn't bother.

"Who invited you here?" John asked, bewildered and frustrated at how he now felt even less sure of who was sending the gifts.

"I don't know," Harry replied, "I thought it was you at first when I got the ticket through the door, and it said in fancy writing that I was 'invited to accompany Dr John Watson to a concerto', all posh. But then the note with it…"

"What note?"

Harry fumbled in her bag.

"Hang on, I brought it with me." She took out a small bit of paper and smoothed it out on the table. John peered over and read it.

_He needs someone. Reconnect with him._

"But who-"

Just then, the lights in the auditorium dimmed further and the stage burst into life, the quartet starting a grand overture, and John's attention moved to the musicians.

…

The evening, John was surprised to find, passed in a very pleasant atmosphere. He was satisfied to see that Harry only had one glass of wine, and settled for some virgin cocktails for the rest of the evening. It was amicable, and John was happy to feel so comfortable. He chatted with Harry about work and the like (they both avoided asking the other about romantic relationships) whilst they listened to the quartet, and by the time it came to the last song John was beginning to – albeit tentatively – feel happy to be around Harry again. It would take time to get used to, of course, since they'd been estranged for so long, but the sender of the mysterious gifts was obviously aiming – and had once again succeeded in his aim – to reconcile the two Watson siblings.

The quartet finished their penultimate song, and the lead violinist stood up.

"Thank you for being such a good audience tonight. We have one more song for you, which is dedicated to a member of our audience. This is for John Watson."

John sat up in his seat, alarmed, as Harry gave him a surprised smile and the starting notes began.

It was his song. It was _John's song_ – the one he'd been sent as the first gift. And here it was, being played to him in a way which was even more beautiful than the first time he'd heard it with a sole violin. This time, the music was passionate and deep, with so many levels to it that he'd never heard before.

_Whoever is doing this, _John thought with tears in his eyes, _You're a complete arse. But you're also completely amazing._

…

John felt more positive than he'd done for so long. Miranda, his boss, commented that he'd become a lot brighter over the past weeks. He and Harry had made a promise to meet up at a later date – for afternoon tea, this time, so as not to tempt Harry too much.

But by the time Friday came around, John's nerves were at a high. That evening, he would be receiving the final gift. He'd had a hundred theories over what it could be.

_K. That fits with the code. The final letter for the final gift._

He didn't think the delivery man was going to lean over and kiss him, that was certain. He'd considered a kite, though John didn't really see how that would improve his life. A kitten? He had Hamish already. A knife for any future cases to keep him safe? That was possible, of course.

The knock at the door came at 10 o'clock that evening, and John rushed up to get it. The delivery man was stood in the doorway, grinning when John wrenched it open.

"You came quickly," he smiled, "Are you ready for your final gift?"

"Of course," John replied, tensing as he tried to see what the man was holding.

"My name's Billy, by the way," the man said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a small black velvet drawstring pouch, "It's been a pleasure to see you each week."

John took the pouch carefully, his hands shaking slightly. It was fairly light, and felt as if there was something like a coin in it.

"You've really changed for the better over the weeks," Billy said, putting his hand on John's shoulder, "My employer is satisfied with what he's done for you. Good luck."

With one last encouraging smile, Billy turned and left, waving to John and then Mrs Hudson (whose head had popped around the door) as he walked out of the door.

_This is it then, _John thought, moving to his chair and opening the drawstring, _The final gift._

John opened the bag fully and tipped the contents into his hand. There were only two things inside: a piece of folded up parchment (the same as with all of the gifts) and a key.

It was a new key, shiny and unmarked. John turned it over, attempting to find numbers, anything, but to no avail.

John set the key down on the side of the sofa and carefully unfolded the printed note.

_You've done so well. My plan to restore you to the great man you once were has worked. This is your final gift, and I hope to see you work it out – though I trust you will. I await your presence. SH._

John's heart skipped a beat.

_What? WHAT?_

Over and over he read it. _SH_. It couldn't be…it couldn't…could it? This was all John had tried to stop himself believing, and yet here it was printed in front of him. _SH. _Those two initials didn't necessarily mean _Sherlock_, did they? They could mean something else, couldn't they?

_Calm down, John,_ he said to himself firmly as his hands shook, _Work this out properly._

Where could the key be for, anyway? It hadn't come with an address, and there weren't any locked boxes that John had found in his searches around the flat. He didn't have anything to go on, did he? Had anything come with the other clues?

"Oh," John said, jumping up with a start, "_Oh!_"

Scrambling up, John rushed over to the drawer of the desk and rifled through the map pages he'd been given a few weeks earlier. Eventually, he found the one he was looking for: _If you need it _– oh, he should have known that meant something!

He examined the page frantically with shaking fingers, until he saw it – a tiny black dot on a house on the left of the page. That had to be it.

….

John crossed London to the address in a matter of minutes, but the taxi ride felt like an age. The reality of it was just sinking in. There was a small – very small, tiny in fact – chance that Sherlock, _Sherlock Holmes_ was alive.

When the cab slowed down outside the address (John had thrust the map at the taxi driver and shown him the marking when he got in), John threw several notes at him and rushed to the door, throwing the key into the hole and finding that the key fit perfectly.

The flat was empty.

After so much adrenaline, John was stopped in his tracks. He stepped into the room carefully, looking around. The lights were off and he could barely make out more than the outline of some of the sofas. Now he'd slowed down, John had time to think about what he'd done. The note he received was signed with Sherlock's initials, yes, but that didn't mean it was him. It could be a trap: one of Moriarty's criminal mastermind friends sorting out Sherlock's leftovers once and for all.

John's heart sunk. It couldn't be Sherlock. It really couldn't. He was dead, John had seen him lying cold on the hard ground.

_Come on, John._

He hated doing this to himself. When he'd started getting the gifts, he'd expected them to help him get away from the fantasies he had of Sherlock bursting in the door and announcing there'd been a murder, but if anything it had just made him indulge them even more.

_Let's sort this out once and for all, _John thought, settling down on the sofa and laying his head down for a sleep, _If I do wake up to a criminal standing over me, at least I'll know once and for all._

* * *

**NOTE: The character Billy is mean to be a reference to Sherlock's page (page-boy kind of but not) in the canon.**


	9. Chapter 9

**ALERT: This chapter contains kissing between two men. So if you don't like it, just...don't read it. Yeah?**

* * *

John woke up gradually. He rubbed his eyes blearily, yawning and trying to make sense of his surroundings. He could hear rain falling outside and he felt a slight crick in his neck from how he'd been lying on the sofa.

_Where am I?_

John stretched himself out and shifted on the sofa, trying to recall the events of the night before.

_Gift._

_Key._

_Taxi._

_Flat._

John sat up quickly. He certainly couldn't see anyone in the room he was in. Surely if Moriarty – or anybody who wanted to harm him, in fact – had sent somebody, they would have done something by now. Going by the thin beams of light shining through the blinds on the windows, John suspected that it was mid-morning. He swung his legs onto the floor and stood up slowly, pacing around the room looking for clues. It was bare, and seemed almost constructed to look like any flat would. A clock sat on the mantelpiece, a simple woven mug lay on the floor, and there were a number of closed wooden cabinets around the room. John began to walk over to the largest of them, and that's when he heard it.

A faint tinkling, like a spoon dropping into a mug. John's head snapped up. The noise had come from behind one of the doors on the other side of the room.

John had thought to bring his gun this time, so he drew it from its home in his jacket pocket on the sofa, and slowly, one pace at a time, advanced across the room from the open door, stopping just before his hand touched the handle. Drawing breath, he took the folded piece of paper from the night before and unfolded it, reading once again the words printed on it.

_I await your presence. SH._

Firmly, John refolded the paper and shoved it back into his trousers, pressing his lips together.

_Let's sort this out finally,_ he decided, _It's time to see who's been doing this._

The handle gave away easily when John pressed down, and the door swung open with ease. John looked into the room, the sudden brightness temporarily obscuring his vision. As his eyes adjusted, a dark figure came into focus. It was a tall silhouette, leaning over the counter with a slightly curved back. The figure's head turned towards John as the edges of his features slowly sharpened.

It was Sherlock.

It was _Sherlock._

John could do nothing for the first few seconds.

_Sherlock. Sherlock._

John blinked hard, looked again, shook his head, looked again, but still the figure in front of him stood, ever resembling the man who he had known and loved. The man who had died.

"John," Sherlock began, taking a small step forwards.

"Tell me you're real."

"What? John, I-"

"Tell me you're real. Tell me you're not dead. Tell me I'm not dead, or dreaming, or drunk as fuck. Tell me you're standing in front of me now."

"John, I'm real. It's me."

John blinked once more stepping forwards slowly and up to Sherlock. Sherlock smiled carefully, reaching his hand forwards to touch John's arm.

"You…fucking…BASTARD!" John cried, suddenly flinging himself at Sherlock, grabbing him by the shirt and throwing him backwards.

"I…fucking…hate…you," John gasped in between punches he threw at Sherlock, hitting him anywhere and everywhere he could reach whilst Sherlock shrunk away with a look of apologetic defeat, which only annoyed John further, making him release all his anger in a burst of punches and yanks that lasted for minutes before John finally let go, stepping back and looking down upon Sherlock's face, disbelieving.

"You're alive. You're here," John whispered.

"Yes, John. And I'm sorry. I can never tell you how sorry I am-"

"You left! You LEFT ME ALONE. I was so lost, Sherlock. So lost, and alone, and flat, and I didn't know which way to turn."

"John, I couldn't return, you have to know that. After I faked my suicide the press were still hot on my toes and I couldn't be sure of how many men Moriarty had hired to check up on the situation. I had to make it was all clear, John. I had to make sure you were safe and well."

"I would have been _well_ if you'd come back to me."

"I wanted to. I missed you as much as you did me," Sherlock murmured, "Possibly I missed you more. I needed your support, John, and it was so hard."

"You think it was hard for you? My life had no meaning, Sherlock. I didn't know where to turn or what to do with my life. It was like somebody had sucked all the energy out of every waking thought I had so nothing remained that mattered. And you can never understand how that feels, so don't you dare tell me it was hard. Don't. You. Fucking. Dare."

…

The process of allowing his mind to come to terms with the idea that Sherlock had been alive and well all this time was one that came gradually to John. His mind had been dreaming up scenarios like this but he'd never allowed it to give in to those thoughts, so letting himself settle with the idea was slow and difficult.

Part of him was angry and confused, and part of him just wanted to jump in the air with glee. This was all he'd ever wanted, ever since he saw Sherlock falling through the air. It was all he wanted now to just let himself give into the bliss. But he needed answers.

Give him his due, Sherlock gave the answers John required and sat patiently on the sofa beside him as each piece of information settled in.

"So this whole time Molly knew and she didn't say anything?"

"She promised me. It was for a reason. I will be eternally grateful to Molly and what she did for me."

Suddenly, John remembered the conversations he'd had with Molly a few weeks previously.

"You didn't…I mean, Molly didn't tell you anything about me, did she? What I said?"

"No, it was mainly Mycroft who was observing you to make sure do weren't going to do anything destructive."

"_Mycroft? _Oh bloody hell."

"How else do you think I could have afforded that watch? I'm a Consulting Detective hiding away from society. I didn't have the means. Mycroft provided support too, which I expect I shall never be able to live down."

"The gifts. They were from you."

"Of course," Sherlock replied, "I needed to provide some sort of support, even if I wasn't there to see you through the days myself. I like to think I helped."

"You did. It did help," John admitted, "But I was never truly whole again. I couldn't have been truly whole again until I saw you. You know that."

Sherlock looked down at John curiously.

"Did I really mean that much to you?"

"Are you joking? Why else do you think I was so lost, Sherlock? I wanted you by my side always, so of course I couldn't bear it when you were gone."

"John," Sherlock said, swallowing, "You know I value our friendship very much – oh don't give me that look, I've _told you _why I had to leave like that – but you mustn't be afraid to say if there is…that is…"

"Sherlock?"

"Now I've come back, I want us to be fully truthful to each other. I owe it to you and I hope you'd grant me the same pleasure."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it seems from what you're saying, and the way your eyes have been ever since I arrived, and I know I do seem out of line by asking this," began Sherlock, "But what…that is, what would you say is…the way you feel? Because your friendship is very important to me too, John, but this time away has made me realise that not all of what I have felt is as platonic as I once believed, but of course if I misread anything I will-"

John placed his hand on Sherlock's mouth, halting his speech.

"Just…just stop talking for a second, will you?"

Sherlock nodded, looking down at where John's fingers covered his lips. John sat on the sofa for a moment, looking deeply into Sherlock's eyes. He was here. Sherlock was here with John. He could feel the cupid's bow of Sherlock's lips beneath his hand. He could hear Sherlock's breath on his fingers.

John moved closer to Sherlock, staring still into his eyes steadily. Each time in his dream, he'd woken up just before their lips had met. It was time to see if reality was any sweeter.

It only took a short movement for John to bridge the gap between them, so he finally felt Sherlock's lips on his. It only lasted for a second, until John pulled away a centimetre, pausing.

"You're back," he sighed, looking into Sherlock's eyes again, searching each speck of colour in them in an attempt to hold onto the moment, "Don't ever leave again."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Sherlock murmured in reply, looking down to John's lips and leaning forwards so the two of them were together again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Finished! Be aware there is also kissing in this chapter. This is quite a short chapter, just wrapping things up. Thank you for making it this far (if indeed you have) and may I wish you a very happy series 3! **

* * *

The week passed in a haze for John. Sherlock had sworn him to secrecy, so after a weekend of lying around and talking for hours about what the two of them had missed when Sherlock had been "away", John had to return to 221B, telling Mrs Hudson – who was very frantic and had given John a lecture on how she'd had to feed Hamish – he'd been to stay with his sister for the weekend. Sherlock insisted he stayed away from his new flat during the week to avoid suspicion, so each day at work he could barely give prescriptions out without his mind wondering what Sherlock was doing in that moment.

It wasn't an unpleasant feeling that John now had taking permanent residence in his chest. In fact, he felt as if there was something inside of him positively_ glowing _out. Miranda, his boss, commented that she'd never seen him so happy.

On Tuesday evening, John went to visit Molly in the morgue. He found her hunched over some paperwork in the adjoining office and she jumped up when she saw him.

"John! Oh, you gave me such a fright! What are you doing here?"

"I just wanted to stop by and see how you were," John replied, stifling a smile at the wary look she gave him.

"Oh, that's very kind of you, John," she began, "How are you-"

"And I also wanted to ask when you were going to tell me that Sherlock was alive?" John interrupted in a put-on annoyed voice. Molly's eyes widened.

"John, I…I couldn't tell you! He said…Sherlock said…and you know I couldn't…"

Molly trailed off as she saw John grin at her, and her shoulders sunk in relief.

"John!" she said, "You scared me! You know I did want to tell you, but I just couldn't."

"I understand," John replied, patting her shoulder with his hand, "And I appreciate what you did. Without you, Sherlock wouldn't have been able to do what he did. I know I was a miserable bugger for a good 10 months, but now I have him back. And I'm just…so happy."

John grinned at Molly, allowing the smile to fill him up as she beamed back at him.

…..

The rest of the week was just as long. John had gone ten months without Sherlock, but somehow these five days were proving to be the longest he'd ever felt he had to wait. John and Sherlock hadn't made love in the weekend he'd stayed over for – Sherlock, ignoring John's protests, had slept on the sofa, gangly legs hanging over the edge. On the Saturday night, John had got up to go and watch Sherlock sleeping, but he'd bumped into Sherlock in the hallway, who was going to watch John.

As soon as his last patient had left on Friday evening, John snatched up the overnight bag he'd packed and ran outside, waving briefly to Miranda and hailing a taxi to the flat. Sherlock was lying on the sofa when he arrived, eyes closed, but as soon as John shut the door his eyes snapped open and he leapt up.

"John," he smiled, moving in fast paces across the room and grabbing John's face with his hands, holding his jaw firmly and leaning down to press a deep kiss onto his lips. John let the overnight bag drop to the floor, moving his own hands up to Sherlock's dark curled hair and moving his fingers through it to the rhythm of the kiss. Sherlock moved one of his hands down John's chest cautiously, and when John simply leaned in further, he felt Sherlock press his hand more confidently over his heart.

John broke away for a second, looking up at Sherlock.

"It's been a long week," he said with ragged breath. Sherlock chuckled deeply, and John was happy to note that Sherlock's breathing was just as unsteady as his own.

"I could get you a drink?" Sherlock asked, moving slightly away from John's mouth, but John grabbed him by his purple shirt – one he recognised from a long time ago – and pulled him closer.

"Don't you dare," he replied, leaning up again to bring Sherlock in for another kiss. They were both more enthusiastic this time, their tongues encircling one another with ease and perfect movement. Before long, John found himself moving over towards the sofa – he wasn't sure if he or Sherlock had done the guiding – on which he fell, closely followed by Sherlock's thin frame pressed on top of John's body.

…

It was a good forty minutes later that John and Sherlock eventually broke the kiss, laughing at themselves for how long they'd let themselves be drawn in for. John sat up slowly, buttoning up his shirt which had become miraculously open at some point during the kissing session and patting down his ruffled hair.

"Well," said Sherlock, doing up the buttons on his own shirt, "That was certainly…erm… interesting."

"It was definitely the best gift of the lot," John replied with a laugh, "Even better than Hamish! You'll love him when you meet him, Mrs Hudson thinks he's the hedgehog version of me."

Sherlock grinned one of his half-mouth smiles.

"That reminds me," he said, "I have another gift for you. Well, I suppose you could call it a gift."

John moved closer, intrigued.

"I've been working things out for months, now," he began, "I had to make sure it was safe, what with the large network Moriarty had. But I think I almost have everything sorted out. With luck I can move back to 221B within a few weeks. Of course, the press will not take easily to it, and there may well be a number of other obstacles, so I'll need you by my side, John. If you'll let me, I'd like to give you the gift of my new life…if you'll share it with me?"

John looked into Sherlock's eyes, which were shining at him hopefully.

"You want me to share your new life with you?" John asked, and Sherlock nodded. John shuffled along the sofa, taking Sherlock's hand and intertwining their fingers.

"I lost you once," he said, still staring deep into Sherlock's eyes, "And I'm never letting you leave me again."


End file.
